Pleating for Mercy (28 page)

A soft breeze swept through the room, gathering speed. I thought it was Meemaw agreeing with me.

Will trusted Nate, but did I trust Will? For that matter, did I trust Miriam? I wasn’t sure, but I was willing to take my chances. I wanted to share my theory with her and see if we’d come to the same conclusion.

I no longer needed my great-grandmother’s encouragement to get me to the funeral.

One phone call and thirty minutes later, Mama and I were on our way, the ring tucked safely in my gray-and-white Burberry handbag. Miriam’s prediction had been right on the money. From the looks of it, the whole community had come out for Nell’s funeral. The service was at the old Methodist church one block off the square, catty-corner to Mockingbird Lane. We cut a diagonal, crossing at the corner of Mockingbird and Elm, skirting the courthouse, crossing Dallas Street at the opposite corner, to join the parade of people filing into the old stone building.

The hushed whispers of the mourners all blended together into white noise. From the back of the sanctuary, I spotted Keith and Lori Kincaid sitting three rows from the front, both with their heads slightly bowed. Miriam sat next to her mother, her back ramrod straight, while Holly slouched next to her.

Josie was in the front row with Nate, her shoulders shaking as she tried to control her grief. Whether she was crying over losing Nell, or over her latent fears that her fiancé may have betrayed her, was anybody’s guess. Ruthann and Karen sat on the other side of her, hip to hip. If Nate or either of the bridesmaids moved, I was afraid Josie would topple right over. Her mother and grandmother were at the end of the pew, tissues pressed to their noses.

Strains of a melancholy violin song sounded through the speakers while images of Nell flashed on a screen hanging behind the altar. Nell snuggling a long-haired gray cat. Nell behind the counter of Seed-n-Bead. A group of women with Nell in the center, all holding up their completed bead projects. Miriam and Nell, side by side, smiling into a mirror. Nell looked happy, like everything was right with the world.

My gaze was drawn straight to Nate. His head was bent, his lips close to Josie’s ear. How much effort was it taking him to ignore the slide show? Probably not nearly as much as it was taking him to ignore the intense stare Miriam had trained on him.

I felt the weight of someone else’s stare, but couldn’t identify who was behind it.

Ruthann watched the pictures, dabbing her eyes with a tissue, but Karen stared at the screen, emotionless. She’d said her husband would be here with her, but he wasn’t by her side. She’d set her heart up to be trampled, and I felt sorry for her.

I twisted around to look at the rest of the mourners. The deputy sheriff who’d been first on the scene after we’d discovered Nell’s body sat in the last row, as far to the right as possible. She wasn’t in uniform, but something about her posture and the jerky way she moved her head as she watched the slide show told me she was still here on official business. I looked at the altar just as another bead shop photo flashed on the screen. The deputy, in off-duty clothes, was in the photo, smiling and holding her wrist out to show off a bracelet.

Small-town living—there was nothing like it. You’d never get to know the law enforcement in a big city. New York cops didn’t go to local beading classes. Not so in Bliss.

I spotted Sheriff McClaine standing in the back of the sanctuary. He caught my eye and gave a polite nod. He wasn’t watching the slide show, either. Was he observing, as I was, who else was
not
watching, wondering if there was guilt behind the uninterest?

By now, almost everyone was riveted by Nell’s life in pictures, except Josie, who was crying, and Nate, who continued to whisper in her ear.

I kept searching the crowd, my gaze flitting over people I didn’t recognize, zeroing in on those I did. Just in case Miriam was wrong and I spotted the real killer diabolically gloating at getting away with murder.

No one gloated.

One man had his head down, as if he was texting or reading e-mail on a phone. He looked familiar, but from the back I couldn’t place him. Then it hit me. It was Ted, Karen’s husband, sitting on his own instead of sitting by his wife. That signified major marital trouble, which directed my theories away from Nate and back to Ted Mitchell as Nell’s secret love.

Thank God I wasn’t a detective. I think it would make me crazy. All those suspects and possible motives. Give me patterns and fabric any day of the week.

Mama and I forged through the throng of people and down the center aisle, looking for a place to sit. Gossip flew from one person to another, echoing in my head as if it were being hollered instead of whispered. “Poor girl.” “I heard she was
pregnant
.” “Had to keep our husbands locked up.” “Too young to die.” The sentiments were pretty evenly divided. Half the town was genuinely sad that Nell had died, but the other half seemed to think she got what she deserved.

“Pregnant?” Mama grabbed my wrist and whispered, raising an eyebrow at me. “Did you hear that?”

There hadn’t been a chance yet to tell her about Nell’s pregnancy. I nodded, prying her fingers off my arm. Her ring sparkled. I’d assumed Hoss McClaine would have already filled her in, and frankly, I was surprised he hadn’t. My respect for him rose a notch for his professionalism—and another notch for the tasteful bling he’d bestowed on my mother.

“I told you, she never went for the right sort of man. Wonder if that’s what was eating at her,” she was saying.

Someone waved to me from a center pew. I grabbed Mama’s hand and we picked our way past knobby knees and feet, finally squeezing in next to a cluster of women. Zinnia James, and her husband, the senator, scooted over to make room for us. I recognized the other women as the ladies Mrs. James had come to Buttons & Bows with the day Nell had died, including Mrs. Abernathy. We all nodded at one another.

The music ended, though the slide show kept playing, and the pastor stepped to the pew and began the service.

Mrs. James leaned toward me. “Very sad,” she said quietly.

I watched the images on the screen. “It sure is,” I whispered. I could feel tears welling at the corners of my eyes. You didn’t have to know a person to be sad at his or her passing, particularly when it was a life cut short, like Nell’s. If there was a lesson to be learned, it was that things could change in an instant.

The pastor spoke about Nell’s contribution to Bliss, the energy and vitality she brought when she’d come here, and the friends who would sorely miss her. By the time he finished, there was hardly a dry eye in the church. She may have been a troubled girl, but she’d grown into a woman who’d touched a lot of people’s lives. More than she probably ever realized.

As we filed out of the church, I lost Mama in the crowd, but stuck close to Mrs. James and her husband, making small talk and trying to chase away the lingering sadness by mentioning chartreuse as a color I’d like to explore for the gown I’d be making for her. Many people gathered in clusters on the sidewalk, while some headed straight to their cars and still others were strolling to the square and Seed-n-Bead, where the reception would be.

The Kincaids passed us, followed by a group of people I didn’t recognize. Josie and her family shuffled past. I blinked and for a second I could see her in her wedding gown, gliding down the aisle toward her groom. I closed my eyes again and the vision was gone. When I looked up, Nate’s arm was at the small of her back, gently guiding her.

“They’re a lovely couple,” Mrs. James said to her husband. Or to me. Or maybe to both of us.

The senator mumbled a noncommittal reply. I nodded, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that the loveliness might be short-lived.

Ted Mitchell came next, his smartphone in his hand, his thumb working furiously as he tapped the keyboard. I leaned close to Mrs. James and pointed at him. “Do you know him?” I asked in a low voice.

“Who, the Kincaids’ lawyer?”

My mind screeched to a halt.
The Kincaids’ what?
“He’s their lawyer?”

“Yes. His name’s Ted Mitchell. Oh!” She snapped her fingers. “His wife was at your shop that day. One of the bridesmaids, in fact. Can’t say I trust him—he’s a lawyer, after all—but he’s friendly enough.”

“Zinnia,” the senator said in a quiet voice. “Gossip.”

The warning in those two words was clear, but Mrs. James just shrugged. “You feel the same way,” she said to him.

He dug his hand into his suit pocket, pulling out his vibrating cell phone. “Prying eyes and ears,” he replied, adding, “Excuse me,” as he wandered away from us to take a call.

She dismissed him
and
his warning with a wave of her hand. “Punctilious to a fault.”

That word wasn’t part of my Southern vernacular, but I connected the dots. “I guess senators need to be careful what they say.”

“Oh, yes, perfect decorum and behavior at all times,” she said, wagging her finger like she was scolding me. Luckily she smiled. She and her husband seemed to understand each other, all the more reason she and Nana should let bygones be bygones, I thought.

She took my elbow, guiding me down the steps of the church. We turned and walked along the sidewalk toward the bead shop.

“So why don’t you trust him? Ted Mitchell, I mean.”

She took a moment to consider her words before responding. “Besides his career choice? Did you ever see
The Godfather
?”

I smirked. “Oh, yeah. My brother’s all-time favorite movie. I’ve probably seen it a hundred times.
I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse
,” I said, barely moving my lips, doing my best mumbled Marlon Brando.

“Nicely done.” She chuckled. “It’s a classic.” We walked half a block in silence before she said, “Jeb was right. I don’t really know him, so I shouldn’t say a word.”

I felt a
but
coming.

“But . . .”

Ha!

“. . . with the Kincaids being an oil and gas family, I can’t help but think of Tom Hagen. Remember him?”

Remember him? I could hear Don Corleone’s adopted son, played by Robert Duvall, in my head as he said,
“Sonny . . . ?”

We crossed the street at the corner. Mrs. James’s high heels slowed her down. I filed away the observation so I’d remember to recommend a low heel to go with the gown I designed for her. “Ted’s a bit taller, and has more hair than Tom Hagen,” she said, “but he has the same blind loyalty.”

I never figured the Kincaids as a Mob-type family but it would explain why Ted Mitchell was on duty at the funeral instead of comforting his wife. The lawyer knew who buttered his cornbread.

Seed-n-Bead was already crowded when we arrived. Josie waved to me from inside. Even from this distance I could see how drawn her face was. It looked like she’d lost ten pounds since she’d first set foot in Buttons & Bows. Her dress was going to need altering and I wasn’t even finished with it yet. “Best be fixin’ to work on it to the very last second,” Mama had said after she’d caught a glimpse of Josie in the church.
If
there ended up being a wedding.

A group of people walked around Mrs. James and me, filing into the shop. The senator brought up the rear. Mrs. James said good-bye to me, took his arm as he approached, and they went in together.

Ted Mitchell strode up the sidewalk, Karen scurrying along after him, taking twice the number of steps that he did. “The same loyalty,” Zinnia James had said, comparing Don Corleone’s lawyer, Tom Hagen, to Ted Mitchell. The image stuck in my mind. What else did I know about him? So Ted worked for the Kincaid family. At Karen’s insistence, he’d helped Nell write a will. If his loyalty to Keith Kincaid extended to Keith’s sons, then maybe meeting with Nell about a will was just an excuse. If the family had gotten wind of the pregnancy, maybe he’d really been trying to intimidate Nell to stop her from revealing it.

On the evidence of how’d they treated Miriam during her divorce and what Will had said about the Kincaids, it was a safe bet that they would not want Nell’s secret coming out.

Just a few yards shy of reaching the door to Seed-n-Bead, Ted answered his cell phone and abruptly changed course. With a quick, dismissive wave to Karen, he darted into the street, dodged a truck, and cut across to the grass in front of the courthouse, phone still pressed to his ear.

I made a split-second decision and dashed across the street after him.

Ted Mitchell disappeared around the north side of the courthouse. I slowed. Barreling around the corner in funeral attire might be a little obvious. Surely not how a private eye would do it. Of course I was just a dressmaker, but being the great-great-great-granddaughter of Butch Cassidy and Texana Harlow meant adventure was in my genes.

I was doing a fast walk now, jabbing my glasses back into place and blowing upward to get the spirals of hair out of my face.

I turned the corner and stopped short. Whirling around, I scanned the courthouse green. Where in tarnation did he go?

“There you are,” a man said loudly just as a hand clasped my elbow. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

I tried to shrug free, but the grip tightened. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I looked up into Will Flores’s face. “What are you talking—”

“Shhh!”
he interrupted, never breaking his stiff smile. He lowered his voice. “Are you crazy, following Ted Mitchell like that?”

“How did you—”

“Darlin’, you’re about as inconspicuous as a copperhead at the beach.”

My confidence deflated. Being a descendant of Butch Cassidy didn’t mean my reconnaissance skills rivaled his during his primo train- and bank-robbing years. “What’s going—”

He pulled me to him until not a puff of air could have slipped between our bodies. “Pretend like you’re happy to see me,” he whispered.